Page 111 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

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We break the scene without ceremony.

My guys vanish into the noise.

The uniforms do their paperwork faces.

The van gets a ticket for parking like an idiot.

The loading bay goes back to being a place where trucks pretend to be honest.

I walk to my car and sit.

I don’t start it.

I let the wheel cool under my hands.

Rafe taps on the glass once, opens the door, leans in.

“You want me to bring dinner to your place later?” he asks. “Something she’ll actually eat?”

“If she comes,” I say.

“She will,” he says with a faith I can’t afford.

“Keep the block clean,” I tell him. “If you see that dent again, make it a memory.”

He grins without humor. “Always wanted to be a body shop.”

I drive aimlessly for an hour because motion keeps me from breaking a wall I’ll have to pay for.

I call the numbers man and tell him to freeze three accounts he thinks are frozen already.

I call Luca and tell him to tell his loud friends that if they ever use that hospital as a stage again, I’ll turn their cars into planters.

I call nobody else because the only person I want to call asked me not to.

I go home because I said I would.

The apartment smells like lemon oil and coffee gone cold.

I put water on and don’t drink it.

I lay my phone face down and flip it after ten seconds because I’m weak.

I walk the rooms, check the windows, lock the door, unlock it, lock it again.

Habit can be religion.

When the sky goes from gray to blue to the color of a bruise, I hear feet on the stairs.

Slow. Careful. Hers.

I stand by the door and put my hand on the bolt, not to lock it.

To be sure I remember how to open it fast.

20

NICO

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